


Anthea's Got A Plan

by SentimentalMonster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Anthea is the Best PA, Eventual Anthea/Mycroft Holmes, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Johnlock, Gratuitous use of National lyrics, John Watson Needs 221B, Let's Get Mary Out Of The Picture, M/M, Mary isn't completely terrible, Mycroft interferes but in a good way, Mycroft plays matchmaker, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Teaches John Watson to Dance, Sherlock used to be a bit promiscuous
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-05-04 01:17:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5314580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SentimentalMonster/pseuds/SentimentalMonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's seemingly flippant return in the restaurant leaves John feeling angry and betrayed, something Mycroft Holmes cannot be having. Mycroft wants John to return to 221B, not only for his brother's happiness and stability but because he believes it's what John wants, too. Anthea hatches a plan to get Mary out of the country for a few weeks and Mycroft persuades John to stay at 221B to try to work things through with Sherlock. By the time Mary returns, will John still want to marry her, or will he realize he's about to make the biggest mistake of his life?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Abduction From Tesco

**Author's Note:**

> S03 Fix-It, AU from midway through Empty Hearse. Picks up a few days after the restaurant scene and deviates from there. This fic was partly inspired by The Fifth Element, where the government uses a contest to get Bruce Willis and Milla Jovovich where they need them to be, although in this case it's that Mycroft needs Mary out of the picture.

John couldn’t say he was entirely surprised when, a few days after Sherlock’s dramatic return, he found a conspicuously inconspicuous black car waiting outside the Tesco. _Bloody Mycroft._ A window rolled down to reveal Anthea in the back seat, smiling slightly. “A word, Dr. Watson?”

_Well, no need to make it easy._ “It’s a bad time right now. I have this roast I need to get home to Mary for dinner. Sorry, wish I could help, but – “

Anthea sighed. _“Now,_ John.”

He grimaced, but moved to open the door, Anthea sliding over to the other side of the car. As usual, once he was safely in the car, she turned her attention to her phone and seemed to completely forget he was there. Where he used to try to strike up conversations with her, now John just sat and steamed. _Who does bloody Mycroft bloody well think I am? I’m not his brother’s errand boy anymore..._ He ignored the usual pang in his chest at the natural echo of that thought _(I’m not his anything anymore)_ and stared out the window.

After twenty minutes, the car pulled into an unfamiliar factory’s parking lot and through an open loading door. The headlights lit up the familiar shape of Mycroft Holmes, dressed in a three-piece suit and leaning on his umbrella. At least some things never changed.

“Good evening, John.”

“Mycroft.”

“It’s been quite a week, hasn’t it?”

“Fuck you.”

Mycroft arched an eyebrow and let out a dry chuckle. “Well then, I’ll dispense with the niceties.”

John’s mouth was set in a firm line. “Good. I don’t need them, just like I don’t need your brother flitting in and out of my life as he pleases.”

The taller man regarded him coolly. “One departure and return is hardly a pattern of ‘flitting.’”

John shrugged. “Semantics. I might also be including a number of times I was abandoned at crime scenes around London when he lost interest or had somewhere else to be or simply forgot I was there. Or maybe I’m operating under the assumption that he will do this again, should the mood take him.” A long pause stretched out between them as both men stared each other down.

“You’ve lost the mustache; it’s a vast improvement.”

“Well, I was looking at myself in the mirror the other day and thought to myself, ‘What would Mycroft like?’”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and let out a sigh. “It doesn’t take the Holmes’ deductive skills to see plainly that that thing on your face was a cry for help.” He stepped closer to the shorter man. “Oh, but then so very many of your actions these past two years could be interpreted as cries for help.” He tilted his head to the side, peering more closely at John. John’s eyes shifted back and forth, nervous under his examination. “Let me think. There was the incident with the pills last January. You had to be taken to St. Bart’s. Molly was most distressed.”

John knew he shouldn’t have been surprised to hear that Mycroft had been watching him, but it made him shift uncomfortably to hear it confirmed. “That wasn’t… I mean, it wasn’t intentional, per se-“

“Bollocks.” The word was almost whispered, it was spoken so gently. John was taken aback, as he had never heard the other man swear before. “Yes, I’m going to call ‘Bollocks’ on that, John. A medical doctor unintentionally took ten Percocet tablets with a bottle of scotch?”

John huffed and closed his eyes, steadying himself. “Fine. It was a dark time, alright? I wasn’t in my right mind.” He looked down at the ground and shuffled his feet. “I got better.”

“Well, at any rate, I’ve heard that congratulations are in order to you and Miss Morstan.”

John cleared his throat, not sure where this conversation was going. “Thank you. Listen, Mycroft, what’s this all about? I have only seen Sherlock the one time, and I don’t think I could tell you anything about him that you don’t already know better. Seeing as how you’ve been in touch these past few years,” he muttered pointedly.

Mycroft sighed and fidgeted with his umbrella handle. “I warned my brother, but naturally, he didn’t listen.”

John wanted nothing more than to turn away from the elder Holmes and not ask him to explain what he meant by that comment, but he couldn’t resist. Like the first time they met, when he said he knew John would stay with Sherlock because of his left hand. “Alright, Mycroft, out with it. What did you warn him about?”

Mycroft’s lips twitched slightly into something that might approach a smile, but John saw through it right away. It was sadness, not mirth. “I warned Sherlock that if he did what he did and gave up everything, then no matter how noble the cause, his everything wouldn’t necessarily want him back.” The umbrella handle flowed gracefully back and forth between his index and ring fingers as he eyed John. Finally, he appeared to make a decision. “I want you to give my brother another chance.”

John sputtered in disbelief, running a hand over his eyes and letting out a sharp bark of laughter. “Unbelievable. Seriously, Mycroft, why did you bring me here?”

“Can’t I pay a social call to my brother’s favorite doctor?”

“If I’m being all but abducted by your agents and dragged out to meet you, then if anyone, I’m the one paying a social call, not you. And based upon your brother’s choice of confidantes, I’m clearly not his favorite anything. Perhaps you should talk to the doctor he actually trusted to help him pull off his charade.” John’s voiced cracked during his last sentence, something he foolishly hoped Mycroft wouldn’t notice. No such luck.

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed again. “Is that jealousy over Miss Hooper, that she was in on his plan? Interesting. You haven’t given him the chance to tell you why, have you? Why he jumped, why the secrecy?”

John grimaced, thinking of the few words he’d exchanged with Sherlock since his return. “Well, things aren’t exactly what they were. I only saw him out briefly at the restaurant…” he cleared his throat. “And then at the café nearby, and then the takeaway down the street… Look, I’m not playing house with him anymore on Baker Street. I’m past all that.” Mycroft winced slightly, and John looked perplexed. “What?”

“John, the story isn’t mine to tell, so I won’t. Suffice it to say, you need to talk with him about why he jumped.” The umbrella stopped its dance under his fingers and Mycroft shifted into what John thought of as the Holmes Evaluation Mode. John knew from experience that the best thing to do with either of the brothers was to simply stand there and take it, not try to hide because they often learned even more about you from what you sought to bury. It was annoying.

John cleared his throat. “I will… try… to get the story from Sherlock.”

“And?”

“Aaaaaand… I’ll try to listen with an open mind.”

“And?”

“That’s all I can promise, Mycroft, and even that’s going to be a challenge.”

Mycroft sighed. “I suppose that will do, given the circumstances.”

“It’s more than is deserved,” John retorted.

The older man regarded John coolly. “Interesting word choice there, John. I don’t know if you realized it, but you used the passive voice. You said, ‘It’s more than is deserved,’ rather than, ‘It’s more than he, i.e., Sherlock, deserves.’ That distances him from the blame; it says that the situation and not my dear brother is at fault. Therefore, even when you’re furious with him, you can’t say he doesn’t deserve understanding, a chance to defend himself. I will grant you that Sherlock is quite impossible at the best of times, even to those he secretly cares about. To you… well, his actions were abominable. And yet, you want to forgive him.” John scoffed at that, but Mycroft just smiled a little more. “You’re blinded by your anger at him for what he did, but deep down, you know that there must have been a context of which you are unaware. Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t do anything without reason, let alone something as drastic as faking his own death by suicide. You’re secretly hoping that there’s a reason why he didn’t include you that will prove that you’re still special to him, not the afterthought that you feel like right now after finding out that he’s been alive without you. And yet,” Mycroft was only inches away from his face now, his eyes reminding John of Sherlock’s, “that particular idea also terrifies you. You’re afraid to hear the whole story because you know that you won’t be able to help but forgive him. Even worse, what if you find out something that you won’t be able to tuck away again and ignore?” He leaned in further so he was speaking softly into John’s ear. “What if it turns out that you’re not the least but rather the _most_ important?”

John’s jaw had dropped during Mycroft’s speech and he stared dizzily into his imperious blue eyes. What is it about the Holmes brothers that they can cause the bottom to drop out from under you without any effort? “I… I don’t… I certainly don’t… I don’t WANT to be angry with him! I didn’t ask for him to leave! I begged him not to jump, but it wasn’t enough…” John felt tears threatening in his eyes and he turned away from Mycroft, furious with himself for losing his composure in front of this man of all people. Mycroft stood silently as John rolled his shoulders and turned back around with a defiant glare.

“Right, so, are we done here?”

“John – “

“We’re done.”

John started walking back to the sleek back car that was still idling nearby. He didn’t wait for Anthea to look up from her phone but went right for the door and got in. Mycroft rapped sharply on the window with his umbrella, and John rolled his eyes but pressed the button to lower it slightly.

“What?”

“Try to listen with an open mind. Like you promised.”

John nodded shortly, then rolled up the window as the car pulled away.

“Where to?” Anthea didn’t even bother to look up at him.

John sighed. “Back to Chiswick please, Anthea.”

Back to Mary, back to normalcy away from the bloody Holmes brothers, he thought, trying desperately again to ignore the brief pang in his chest. Sherlock didn’t want to stay with me, he reminded himself. However, another voice in the back of his mind that had been straining to be heard since his encounter with Sherlock was gaining strength and starting to plague him with doubt. _Why the hell_ did _he do it? He knew the accusations were false and would be borne out in time. Why go through all the trouble of faking his death?_ John wondered uncomfortably if the answer to that question might be more disturbing than any reason he might have had for suicide.

Under the passing streetlights, Anthea snuck a glance at John Watson and smiled to see him thoughtfully chewing the tip of his thumb. She opened her text messages and quickly dashed off a message to Mycroft: _Suggestion planted. Should bear fruit._

Mycroft’s reply came swiftly: _Excellent._

When the car pulled up in front of John’s new flat, it took him several moments to snap out of his reverie and realize that the car had stopped. He glowered briefly at Anthea by way of goodbye and walked back into his ordinary terraced house in his ordinary neighborhood and tried to ignore the din in his head and the slightly sick feeling in his gut.

 

*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*

 

Mycroft sat in his dim office with his fingers steepled under his chin. Anthea’s message had made him smile, but he had quickly returned to worrying. _John must go back to Sherlock. Sherlock needs John, and whether or not he knows it, John needs him, too._ He grimaced and opened the folder on his desk labeled “A.G.R.A.” for the third time that evening. When Anthea slid in the door and sat down in the chair across from him, he barely seemed to notice. She was used to his silences though and patiently tapped away on her phone until he raised his eyes to her.

“So.”

“So,” she echoed.

“A.G.R.A. Is it as bad as I think it is?”

“Probably worse, sir.”

“That bad?”

She nodded stiffly. “Reading between the lines of her files, you can tell a few things about a person in my former line of work. There is a code of sorts – it’s considered bad form to kill someone other than the intended target. Most of us would plan carefully and wait for the opportune moment, using non-lethal force on any innocent bystanders and only when that’s necessary. Did you notice the Marbourg case? She killed the gardener and his wife on her way off the estate. Completely unnecessary.”

“I did notice that, yes. Not sloppy exactly, just lazy. She didn’t want to take the long route that would have allowed her to avoid them, so she simply shot her way through.”

“Right. The servants’ lives were unimportant details. She is a viper; all of the members of her former organization are. And then there’s the fact that she went freelance. They never go freelance because they are happy, well-adjusted people. I am confident that she worked for Moriarty in the past, and although I can’t prove it, I strongly suspect that she was the sniper assigned to John three years ago at the pool. It would make a twisted kind of sense, if she fell in love with the man she had in her crosshairs.”

Mycroft allowed his face to fall into his hands and rubbed his temples. “This is a mess. I can’t show her file to John. He will quickly figure out that I have known about her for months and haven’t told him. That would not lead to further trust on his part, and I need him to trust me in the long run.”

Anthea hummed her agreement. “And Sherlock won’t work, either.”

“Sherlock?” Mycroft laughed shortly. “Definitely not. He’s all turned around right now. I think he honestly expected John to still be sitting at 221B, waiting for him to return from the dead. No, he’s in an odd emotional place; heaven forbid, he might even try to help her get John back out of some misguided attempt to make John happy. And yet, Sherlock is the only one who can possibly take John away from her. We will need him to be involved and visible, but I would prefer to avoid telling him the entire story.”

Anthea narrowed her eyes. “It would help if we could get them to spend time together without her. Preferably in Baker Street to trigger a sense of nostalgia in John. Sort of a, ‘This Could Be Your Life, Dr. Watson.’”

“I’d certainly be on board with that.  It would be even better if we could get John to spend a week or more back there.”

“Simple then.”

Mycroft arched one elegant eyebrow in surprise. “Is it now?”

“Yes, sir. With all due respect, you just need to think a bit deviously. We make her an offer she can’t refuse. And then we make her a contest winner.”

He stared at his pretty assistant blankly while he reviewed her words in his head. “I’m not quite certain I follow.”

She smiled at him mischievously. “You’re going to like this one.”


	2. An Abduction From A Chiswick Flat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft makes Mary an offer she can't resist.

Mary had just locked the door to the flat when her phone buzzed with a text message. Frowning slightly, she fished it out of her pocket and opened it, her expression growing stony as she read and then re-read its contents. She walked out of the building, mostly unsurprised to see a sleek black car waiting at the curb with an attractive _(and physically capable,_ her assassin’s brain noted) brunette woman leaning casually against it. Squaring her shoulders, Mary made eye contact with her unknown visitor and strode directly up to her.

“Good morning, Miss Morstan.”

Mary turned her phone with the open text message to the woman, whose glance didn’t even flicker to it. She knew then that whoever this was, she was a professional like herself. “’Vera wants to know how Operation Touchback worked out,’” Mary read aloud. “Interesting choice of words. And I think we both know that you needn’t address me as ‘Miss Morstan.’”

The brunette smiled slightly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Just so. However, I think that ‘Miss Morstan’ will do for the present. Wouldn’t want to start any rumours amongst the neighbours.”

Mary’s eyes narrowed. She was at this woman’s mercy and didn’t like it one bit. “What do you want, Miss…?”

“You may call me Anthea. My employer wishes to have a quiet word,” she said, opening the car door as she spoke and gesturing for Mary to get in. Mary leaned over and quickly glanced around the interior, noting the tinted windows and the back of the driver’s head, _(short hair, straight posture, former military, probably special forces.)_

“I don’t suppose I can refuse, can I, Anthea?”

“Not if you want to keep up the pretense of being Miss Morstan, you can’t.”

“Right. Of course.” Mary got into the car and slid over in the seat, Anthea following her and closing the door. The driver pulled away smoothly from the curb and Anthea turned on her mobile phone, seemingly losing all interest in her companion. That was fine by Mary; she had the feeling that she didn’t want to know who her employer was, anyway.

They drove for fifteen minutes until they reached a factory set a little ways back from the road. The car pulled into an open warehouse door and then stopped. Mary waited for instructions for a half a minute, finally opening the door herself and getting out when it became clear that Anthea wasn’t even going to look at her.

A tall and rather elegant man in a perfectly tailored three-piece suit stood about twenty feet in front of the car, a faint smile on his face. She felt uneasy as she approached him, but was determined not to let him see.

“No need to be anxious, Miss Morstan. I occupy a minor position in the British government; we don’t casually murder people, as a general rule. Unlike some organizations I could mention.”

She sighed and ran a hand through her short blonde hair. “What have I done to merit the personal interest of the British government? I have been out of the game for almost five years now.”

The man arched an eyebrow at her. “Five years? Interesting. I’ll have to revisit our files on you, because I could have sworn we had an intelligence report on your involvement in a rather sordid affair just three years ago at a public pool. It wasn’t you then who was hired by Jim Moriarty to keep a gun trained on Dr. John Watson, your current fiancé?” Her eyes narrowed, but the man still gazed steadily at her.

“Who are you, and what do you want?”

“I think you’ll understand the ‘what’ when I tell you the ‘who.’ My name is Mycroft Holmes, and I am Sherlock Holmes’ older brother.”

Mary barked out a short laugh and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Great. Just great. ‘Sherlock Holmes.’ That name is the bane of my existence.”

Mycroft’s eyes hardened at her words. “Don’t presume to underestimate me, Miss Morstan, and you would be wise not to test my patience, either.”

She tilted her head and looked him over again, evaluating. “There is a family resemblance now that I’m looking for it. Certainly condescension and smugness run in those genes.”

“An interesting theory, Miss Gardiner.” Mary blanched. “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought the gloves were off. Annie Gardiner, born and raised in Arlington, Virginia, daughter of a CIA analyst and an ex-KGB agent who defected in 1972. My, what might run in that family, if we are speculating about such things? Graduate of American University, spent one year studying in Paris and one in London. Talent for languages and a natural ear for accents. Joined the CIA as soon as you graduated and spent five years working tirelessly to get transferred from a desk to field work. You were an outstanding agent under the code name AGRA, until it came to light that you had taken certain liberties with the notion of self-defense. When the agency became concerned about a number of your on-the-job kills, you went rogue rather than face a tribunal. You bounced around Europe, working freelance with a number of illegal organizations, until finally you settled in London where Jim Moriarty hired you. After his death and my brother's disappearance, you decided to retire from the assassin game and try your hand at living a normal life as sweet, unassuming Mary Morstan. Have I missed anything?”

She smiled and looked at the ceiling. “No, but I missed something: I forgot to note that posh twattery must run in your family, too."

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes. “Charming,” he said drolly. “I’ll get to the point – I know exactly who you are, and who you were, and could destroy this little life you’ve built for yourself tonight if I so desired.” Mary gulped despite herself, and Mycroft took a few steps and leaned forward into her personal space. “Your appropriate question at this juncture is, ‘Well then, why don’t you?’ I’m glad you asked. You see, I’m a big believer in the notion that a decision reached rather than a decision forced sits better with the person deciding. I could tell John or Sherlock about your past and ensure that you’ll be sent packing immediately. However, people can be so funny about bad news, and being the one to deliver it rarely works out well for the messenger. Even I can’t predict how our dear John would react.” He stepped back and smirked, “Also, I don’t have many vices, but I do have something of a weakness for gambling, particularly when betting on a long shot. Therefore, I’m going to give you a chance to win my silence.”

Mary’s eyes had narrowed to suspicious slits. “I’m listening.”

“You, Miss Morstan,” Mycroft reached out to take a folder Anthea had automatically extended, “are going to get some fantastic news tomorrow. You’ve won the Condé Nast Brides Magazine ‘Pre-Wedding Jitters Getaway’. An abominable name, but a lovely prize. Congratulations,” he smiled thinly, passing the folder to Mary. Inside was a glossy brochure for a luxury resort on Laguna Beach in Phuket. “You and three friends of your choice will be flown to Phuket for a 10-night stay in a deluxe suite at the Dusit Thani Hotel. It’s right on the beach, all expenses paid.”

Mary flipped through the pages with a resigned expression on her face. “Let me get this straight; you’re sending me away for a week and a half in the hopes that while I’m out of the picture, John will realize his undying love for your pathetic lovesick brother,” she clutched the back of her hand dramatically to her forehead and looked away wistfully, “and break our engagement in order to spend the rest of his life haring around after Sherlock.”

Mycroft nodded tersely. “I know that it’s a long shot, but like I said, I’m rather partial to those. And underdogs.”

She regarded him coolly and weighed her options. “What are the terms? Am I allowed phone calls?”

“You’ll be allowed one phone call per day, of any duration. You can’t tell John what’s going on without exposing yourself, so I feel it’s unnecessary to say but I will regardless: You cannot tell John that I arranged this or was in any way involved. He will suspect, and Sherlock will almost certainly know, but as far as you are concerned, you were simply lucky and won a contest. As I said previously, you can invite three friends, whom you are free to choose, but those three obviously cannot include John. There will be no flying home early, no matter what happens; if you go, you’re there for the full ten nights. I’ve decided to be generous in an attempt to curry your favour, so all food, drinks, excursions, and spa services will be covered. You’ll be treated like royalty for the duration of your holiday. In return, I ask one thing: encourage John stay at Baker Street during your absence.”

She cocked her head to the side, still smiling faintly. “Now what makes you think I’ll be doing that?”

He smiled thinly at her. “Several reasons. First, I strongly suspect that you enjoy a bet as much as I do. You’re curious even now to see what the outcome will be, although the notion also horrifies you. Trust me when I say that I share both feelings. Second, you basically have to; I will tell John and Sherlock about your past if you don’t agree or if you violate the rules. Third, who doesn’t love a free holiday? Fourth, and possibly most importantly,” he stepped close to her again and peered into her eyes, “contrary to everything I have said or implied tonight, I do believe that you want to escape your past and change your life for the better. I also think that you genuinely love John and want him to be happy. You’ve undoubtedly heard the saying, ‘If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, it’s yours forever,’ etc. Trite and hackneyed, but true.” Mary bowed her head, considering. “If you don’t allow him the chance to figure out these feelings now, you’ll never know if he truly loves you or if he’s just marrying you out of a sense of duty. And while you could live with the latter, I believe you’re the kind of person who would want to know.”

She stared off into the distance for a half a minute, then finally blinked and sighed. “I don’t have much choice, do I?” she muttered, meeting Mycroft’s gaze again. “Fine. I’ll do it. I’ll take the fancy trip and even tell him to stay at Baker Street. BUT,” her eyes hardened and voice took on a steely tone, “if John does go home with me after those ten days, you have to promise that you won’t interfere any further and will keep my secret forever. If you want to gamble, you’re going to play for the ultimate stakes or nothing.”

A tense look flashed over Mycroft’s face, but he nodded. “Agreed. Two final items of business: first, a warning that if you change your mind tonight and try to forget our arrangement tomorrow, a videotape of this entire conversation, plus a record of your undesirable history, will be sent to both John and Sherlock immediately. Second, I want you to sign this contract,” he said, reaching for another folder from Anthea. “It is of course not legally binding, but lays out our exact terms as discussed. It’s amazing how seriously humans take something as simple as a signature. Sign it as both ‘Mary Morstan’ and ‘Annie Gardiner’, if you’d be so kind.”

She quirks her mouth in a forced smile, but signs both lines. “I expect to receive a copy of this. And now, I’d like to be taken to the clinic. We wouldn’t want me to miss my phone call from Condé Nast now, would we?”

Mycroft handed her a duplicate of the contract and regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. “I don’t expect you to be impressed by this, but for what it’s worth, I do think you’re a remarkable woman. If it weren’t for my poor lovesick brother, I’d leave you be. As long as your sordid past stayed in the past.”

Mary’s mouth quirked upward in her first genuine smile that morning. “No offense, but coming from you, after the events of the past hour? Your esteem means virtually nothing.”

Mycroft couldn’t help but smile softly. “No offense taken. Like I said,” he leans close to her ear, “remarkable.” She blew him a mockingly flirtatious kiss, turned on her heel, and got back into the car with Anthea, who looked up briefly to acknowledge her.

“Where to?” Anthea asked.

“The clinic. Chiswick Health Centre. Though I’d appreciate it if you’d let me out a few blocks away to avoid unnecessary questions.”

The rest of the ride proceeded in silence with Mary staring thoughtfully out of the window. Anthea observed her without looking at her for several minutes, then sent a text to Mycroft.

_Well done, sir._

_Thank you. I would never have thought to send her off "willingly" like this. – MH_

_I watched the Fifth Element again last week. Probably got the idea of using a real sweepstakes from that._

_I have no idea what that is. Regardless, you are brilliant. I don’t tell you that often enough. – MH_

They pulled up at the bus stop closest to the clinic and Mary got out without a word. After she was gone, Anthea smiled and sent Mycroft another message:

_Don’t praise me too much just yet. John will go back to 221B for a week and a half, but this plan still has the potential to be a spectacular failure._

_ For the record my dear, if it is, the fault will not be yours. My baby brother will need to grow out of his emotional adolescence and he’s only got 10 days in which to do it. Gods help us all. - MH _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me a few extra days to post this second chapter! I'm a chronic over-analyzer and I have a hard time finally deciding that these chapters are finished and ready. I'm going to try to adhere to a weekly posting schedule from now on, honestly!
> 
> Second, my eternal gratitude to everyone who left kudos, comments, bookmarked, followed, etc!!! This is only the second time I've published a story online, (and the first time in years.) Trust me when I say that I squeee like a five year old at every notification. :D
> 
> We'll finally see our boys together and back in action within maybe the next two chapters.


	3. You are always welcome, John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOOD GRIEF, Y'ALL. I am a terrible person. I am the kind of writer I hate who disappears without a trace for months at a time. I promise it will not be another seven months before I update again! Pinky swear.

John heard Mary’s shriek through his open office door, followed by excited laughter. He got up and peered around the door and saw Mary practically jumping up and down with one of the other nurses, her hands fluttering with excitement. “Hey ladies, everything alright?”

“Gods yes, can’t you tell?” As usual, John let the slight note of condescension roll off his back and Mary smiled slyly at him. _At what point does ‘cheeky’ become ‘annoying’?_ John wondered how other people put up with it. “I’ve won a contest,” she explained, “a ten day trip to Thailand!” John’s face twitched, but he tried not to let it show. “A trip to Thailand, with three girlfriends of my choosing! I must’ve signed up at that bridal expo I went to with Janine a week or so back, there were tons of sweepstakes entries. I never thought I’d actually win though; I’ve never won anything like that in my life!”

John smiled and went to hug her, murmuring “Congratulations, sweetheart!” in her ear, but inside he was steaming. The Holmes brothers might doubt his deductive abilities, but John would have to be blind to miss Mycroft’s hand at work here, barely seventy-two hours after he had all but begged John to spend more time with Sherlock. _So that’s how we’re going to play, then. Get my fiancee out of the picture, play silly buggers with my relationship… Mycroft Holmes, we’re going to have Words later,_ he vowed. “Wow, Thailand?” he said aloud.

“Yes, some resort in Phuket, right on the beach, all inclusive… The contest was from Brides magazine, and it’s supposed to be a getaway for the bride-to-be and three of her attendants, so I’m sorry, honey, but you’ll have to sit this one out.” She smiled at John, and then her eyes widened as if she’d had an epiphany. “You should go back to 221B while I’m gone, stay with Sherlock! Surely you’ll enjoy that almost as much as cocktails and massages in paradise,” she said with a wink.

“I, uh… Yeah, that’s…” he trailed off, torn between the small, guilty part of him that wanted to do just that and the rather larger, spiteful part that wanted to foil what he was sure was Mycroft’s plan. “That’s not a bad idea,” he said carefully, “except as you know, we’re not exactly on friendly terms right now. I don’t know that he’d want me there.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. You and I both know that the minute you’re ready to start talking to him again, he’ll be banging down your door, desperate to have his friend back. His only friend, poor thing,” she added. John felt his hackles rise and gave her his trademark tight-lipped smile of irritation.

“Not a particularly nice thing to say.”

“I’m sorry, John dear, but you must realize that he really does rub most people the wrong way. And look at what he did to you!”

“I know, I know. I just… Please don’t talk about him like that. But as for us, I don’t know if I’m ready to take him back.” Mary arched an eyebrow at his choice of words. “As a friend, I mean,” he rushed out. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive him.”

“John, you already have, you’re just being stubborn. He’s far too important to you to cut out of your life forever, even over such a boneheaded move. No, I like this: I’ll go to Thailand with Janine, Allie, and maybe Trina… Not sure about Trina, hmm…. And you’ll go to 221B! We’ll both have a little holiday before the wedding planning truly gets underway.”

John sighed, knowing that he’d already lost. “When is this exactly, the trip?”

“They said that I leave on November 28th, just a little less than a month from now.”

“Brilliant. Well, I guess I’ll text Sherlock, see if I can go over to 221B tonight and ask him if I can stay.” For a moment, John thought he saw a darker expression pass over Mary’s face, but then it was gone.

“I’ll be home watching _Strictly Come Dancing,_ so don’t worry about getting back early on my account.”

He smiled and kissed her forehead. “What did I do to find a woman like you?”

Again, he had the impression that Mary’s face clouded for a moment, but when he blinked, all he saw was open, innocent blue eyes and a sweet smile. “Who knows, John? You must have done something good in a past life.”

*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*

_  
Hello. - JW_

_Hello. - SH_

_Well, this is awkward. - JW_

_Definitely. - SH_

_Though not unwelcome. I didn’t mean to suggest that. - SH_

_Please don’t take that the wrong way. - SH_

_Ha, it’s okay. Listen, do you have anything on tonight? Mind if I stop by, maybe bring some takeaway? - JW_

_You know you’re always welcome, John. - SH_

_So that’s a yes then? - JW_

_Yes, please. I think butter chicken from India Palace will do nicely. Unless you had other ideas. - SH_

_Butter chicken it is. See you around 7? - JW_

_Fine. The door will be open, as always. - SH_

__

  


*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*

_Why is my stomach doing bloody somersaults?_ John wondered to himself as he climbed the seventeen familiar stairs to 221B. _It’s just Sherlock. And I’m still angry at him, no matter what Mary or Mycroft say, and that’s justified, godsdamnit._ He huffed out a resigned sigh, squared his shoulders, and knocked on the door of the flat. “Come in,” Sherlock called through the door.

When he entered, he was surprised to see that the flat was tidier than it ever had been when he lived there, although John suspected that was more Mrs. Hudson’s doing than Sherlock’s. The man himself was crouched down in front of the fireplace, placing a final log on top of a cosy fire and giving it a few pokes until he seemed satisfied with the placement and stood, turning to face John with a slightly awkward smile. “Hello there.”

John couldn’t help smiling in return before remembering his annoyance and clearing his throat. “Hello to you, too. You’re looking well. Except for the, uhhh…” he gestured to his face.

Sherlock touched the pale purple bruising still visible around his right eye from John’s fists and his smile turned tight, possibly nervous. “Ah, yes, well. You know, for how many times I fantasized about my return from the dead, you would think I would have chosen my scenario more wisely.” He looked down and away. “It seems I never learn.”

John moved over to the desk, setting down the bags of food next to two glasses of white wine. “No matter. And I was out of line, especially by the, ahem, third punch.”

Sherlock’s reply was quiet, almost soft. “You were angry, rightly so. And in the middle of proposing when I practically jumped out of a cake in front of you. Which was actually one of my other ideas, the cake bit. Might have actually gone down better,” he sighed, turning away. “My apologies to you, and to Miss Morstan. I trust she’s well.” Sherlock busied himself with gathering plates and forks from the kitchen, bringing them back out to their armchairs by unspoken agreement.

“She is, sends her regards.” _Well, she sort of did._ “She actually found out that she won a contest this afternoon.”

Sherlock paused in the act of opening the bags. “Really.”

“Yes. From Brides magazine. Ten days in Thailand for her and three of her girlfriends.”

“Hmmm.”

John watched Sherlock fiddling with the containers for half a minute, waiting for him to say something. Finally he sighed and gave up. “My meddling elder brother detection is out of practice, but doesn’t it seem like the sort of thing Mycroft could have set up, twirling his moustache?”

It was Sherlock’s turn to sigh. “It doesn’t sound like his usual tricks, but I wouldn’t put it past him. I’m sorry, John, I’ll be certain to insult him with particular rancor next I see him.”

John smiled a little at that. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

“Well, it wouldn’t do to simply let such an offense slip by unnoticed.”

They both smiled at each other, eyes locked for half a minute before John cleared his throat and looked away. “It’s actually kind of a nice thing though, relatively speaking. I mean, ten days in Thailand, at a beautiful resort? Mary was ecstatic today when she got the call. Said it was the best thing she’s ever won in her life. So perhaps we shouldn’t be too hard on the old boy.”

“I assure you, John, if Mycroft has in fact engineered this little trip, it was not with Mary’s happiness in mind. Oh… sorry, that sounded quite…”

John cleared his throat, smile a bit diminished. “No no, it’s true of course. But ahhh… Mary suggested that whilst she’s gone, I might stay here, have a boys’ week over here with you at Baker Street.” Sherlock paused in closing up a box of rice, obviously thinking rapidly. “I mean, that’s almost certainly what Mycroft wants, so I’m sort of inclined to be deliberately antagonistic and not do it just to piss him off, but that does seem a bit childish, even for me.” John froze as he remembered that he hadn’t even asked Sherlock yet if it was alright with him, and that there was a very real chance Sherlock wouldn’t want him there. “Fuck, I’ve bollocksed this all up, I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask you if it was okay first-”

“You can stay!” Sherlock interjected a bit too quickly, then looked away and took a gulp of his wine. “John, if you’re asking if you can stay here, rest assured that the answer will always be yes. You are always welcome.” He glanced up at John and smiled nervously, then blushed and looked away, busying himself with tucking into his food. John couldn’t help smiling fondly when Sherlock stole some naan from his plate, just like he used to. _Maybe things will be okay again, someday._ The prospect of spending ten days back at Baker Street was starting to sound like a great idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will start up the ten days at Baker Street, when we'll finally get into the meat of the story! I'm excited. :D


End file.
